A few weekends ago, Mark and I went to our first Major League Baseball game together. The Washington Nationals vs the Atlanta Braves. Mark's turf vs. my turf.
To be honest, though, I cheered for the Nationals. Now wait....before you drag me from my home, carry me around the city, and shout me a traitor...Let me state my reasons:
1. I come from a avid football family. We bleed George red and black. From August to February, we live and breathe in the name of Herschel Walker, alternately cuss and praise Mark Richt, fly our colors proudly, and rally like no other. We say dawg not dog. And a car without some Georgia love--whether it be flag, sticker, or tire cover--belongs to no Bulldawg. So...in the face of all that foamy-mouthed ferocity... no other sport really mattered. So, no, although I grew up red-clay stained, I was not raised a Braves fan.
2. My husband lived and worked in Washington, D.C. And we still reside in Nats territory, so when in Rome...
3. That Bryce Harper is a lovely looking fellow and, man, can he clobber a baseball.
4. Papa Johns gives 50% off pizza every time the Nats win by 7. If nothing else will convince you to buy peanuts and cracker jacks in the name of Natitude, cheap pizza will.
Convinced? Yes, no, maybe so?
Convinced enough to grudgingly stow away your torches and ropes? Thanks.
Here's the thing about Mark and baseball: he stays until the last possible second. It doesn't matter the score, it doesn't matter if more than half of the stadium has given up and left. You stay until the ump has given the signal, and you cheer your bloody lungs out. If the board says charge, you yell charge. If it says make noise, you make noise. If it says stand on your head, you stand on your head.
Because you never know when the seemingly impossible comeback will happen. And that's another thing I love about my husband: he cheers loud, stays loyal, waves his fists like a maniac, and never gives up.